


old hearts, sometimes soldiers

by spitfiretemper



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Historical Hetalia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Purple Prose, so much purple prose, you have no idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 09:05:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15021287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spitfiretemper/pseuds/spitfiretemper
Summary: France was beautiful, at war. With the rage of a stormy sky in his eyes and his entire body tense with a desire to hurt, to kill; a base monstrosity of a man.Some would find it difficult, England imagined, to join that image (that terror) to the man now sitting on the sick bay cot before him.





	old hearts, sometimes soldiers

**Author's Note:**

> it's been a long time since i wrote anything, so this is just a little drabble with my and my good friend's rp muses to maybe try and get back into it

Watching France in the midst of battle had always been a thrill entirely its own.

To get to watch the immaculate composure slip and slide, give way to a cruel ferocity with bared teeth and wild eyes – to maybe catch a glimpse of those terrible eyes, of the fury in them as he sees England’s blade tear through another poor soul unfortunate enough to get caught in the whirlwind of the war between them.

It was beautiful.

 _He_  was beautiful, like that.

With the rage of a stormy sky in his eyes and his entire body tense with a desire to hurt, to kill; a base monstrosity of a man.

Some would find it difficult, England imagined, to join that image (that terror) to the man now sitting on the sick bay cot before him.

France now (and it was France, no matter how much both of them might have liked to pretend otherwise) was all sunken-in eyes and hollow cheeks, knuckles turning white where they clench against the edge of the cot. Shrinking further into himself with every second England took to force himself to move.

But it was difficult.

To tell his legs to take even a single step forward.

Because this wasn’t who they were. Or at least it wasn’t who they had ever been.

His throat was dry enough to ache, his body numb and heart racing.

It took all of his willpower to get himself to step forward into the room.

To pull the door closed behind him.

It felt a lot like hiding and very little like moving forward.

The door behind him fell shut and suddenly he found himself standing between France’s thighs at the edge of the bed without really knowing how he’d got there. His hands (the left one bandaged still from where he’d burnt his entire palm searching through rubble and embers and death) lifted with a mind of their own – found the planes of France’s face, traced along worried brows and chapped lips and sunken cheeks.

There was a tremor in his fingers; an uncertain and emotional quality he’d likely attribute to pure exhaustion at any other time.

Now, though, he was too busy running fluttery touches over pallid skin.

He watched, oddly disconnected, as his hands fitted themselves to the back of France’s head and guided him forward to rest his forehead against the centre of his torso.

The hair under his fingers was shorn close to the skull, close-cropped and bristly.

The world blurred a little in front of his eyes, so he shut them. Kept the burning hidden behind his lids.

Until France’s voice pulled him from the comfortable denial in his own head and back into the small room in a hospital in Paris.

He thought it might have been the softness somewhere in his chest; the sticky, tired fondness that kept trying to crawl up his throat – maybe he’d lost the fight to keep it back, for once.

Maybe that was why:

_“Nous sommes veux soldats depuis longtemps, mon cœur.”_

There was a beat of silence, like the other wasn’t sure where to step next in their little dance. Was there a trap he’d missed? A prelude to a cruel taunt? It would certainly be a step back into their routine, into something both of them were familiar with – or had been.

Before.

Before the war had pulled them in. Before it had spat them back out, worn and twisted and barely themselves anymore. Their own skin so unfamiliar that routines seemed a heartless joke. A costume that no longer fit.

He felt the other press a little further into him with what might have been intended as a snort, but sounded more like a shuddery exhalation; weary and uncertain where they usually aimed for condescension and derision.

_“Hah. Ton cœur?”_

And he almost wished for the airy amusement France was always so prone to during the kinder days of their relationship. The times of their in-betweens; when annoyance was plenty, but anger rare. When they shared more wine than animosity, traded insults out of habit and an age-old thirst for familiarity than anything else.

But there was none of that now. An attempt to feign it, certainly, but the voice was too rough, too small, too raw to fit that other man from all those other times.

And so England just gave a soft hum, traced his thumb along the curve of skin and bone beneath his fingers.

He tried to prod at the usually ever-present mistrust inside himself. The part of himself that told him to keep himself guarded, to look for loopholes and backdoors and leverage. But that, too, had fallen silent with the last of the sirens echoing through his home.

_“Tu es assez proche de ça, quelquefois.”_

Another breathless second of silence—

And then France buried his face against the worn fabric of England’s shirt, pulled him as close as his skeletal arms could manage, shoulders shaking under bandaged fingers.

_“Je suppose que c'est vrai, quelquefois.”_

And if his laugh sounded a little wet - neither of them mentioned it, for once.

**Author's Note:**

> Nous sommes veux soldats depuis longtemps, mon cœur. - We've been old soldiers for a long time, my heart.  
> Hah. Ton cœur? - Hah. Your heart?  
> Tu es assez proche de ça, quelquefois. - You're close enough to it, sometimes.  
> Je suppose que c'est vrai, quelquefois. - I suppose that's true, sometimes.
> 
> if you find any typos, please let me know;;;


End file.
